It takes a strong woman to wear a 20-strand Ni'ihau shell lei. Not because of the weight, which isn't much, or the length, which can be an encumbrance when you're on stage and playing an 'ukulele. But to wear a lei like that, you have to understand the discipline of the lei makers, the dedication to their art, the love that went into finding each tiny momi and the hours of precision that created every intricate strand.

Aunty Genoa Keawe's life was like that, a long dedication to a thing of beauty, an unwavering work ethic, an appreciation for gifts of the spirit. She could wear that 20-strand lei as few could.

Her passing is a sad day for Hawaiian music, but also a strong reminder of what it means to be one of the great ones. Aunty Genoa had more than talent. She achieved more than longevity. She made her mark not through lucky breaks but through hard work, devotion to her craft and a unique graciousness that made even the guy sitting in the back row of the audience feel as though he knew her.

Though her music was old-style, it was never outdated. You could have Aunty Genoa playing on your iPod shuffle and no one would think it was anything but cool.

Offstage, she raised 12 children, started her own record company and wisely kept control of her image and creative output. When a new generation of Hawaiian ha'i singers arrived on the local music scene, each one credited Aunty Genoa with not only inspiring them but teaching them, one-on-one. She was generous with her knowledge, giving of her talents, but a careful manager of her career. She could hold that note in "Alika" for almost two minutes. She could hold her own in a business that can be treacherous.

People's memories of her will be deeply personal. She wasn't just a voice you heard on the radio. She will be remembered as the one who sang at your cousin's big wedding, the CD you had playing in the delivery room when your child was born, the record that played on your hula teacher's phonograph in the old wooden gym with floors so creaky the needle would skip if you stomped your foot too hard in an 'uwehe.

In many of the photos from her career, she is wearing that 20-strand lei pupu o Ni'ihau, her 'ukulele held just a bit to the side to keep from pressing against the shells. In the photos, she is always smiling. She could smile and sing at the same time. She wore that lei like she sang — with the easy grace that comes with soulful strength.

Lee Cataluna's column runs Tuesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Reach her at 535-8172 or lcataluna@honoluluadvertiser.com.